


Bad Luck, Bad Weather, and Bigfoot

by ThisWasInevitable



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: (which should surprise no one), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Campaign: Amnesty (The Adventure Zone), Canon-Typical Violence, Flirting, Joseph Stern wrote self insert fanfic as a teen and you get to read it, Kissing, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Sternclay Big Bang, Trans Barclay, and mentions of sex, background indruck, rating is for language, sometime after the tree arc, sternclay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:55:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22536616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisWasInevitable/pseuds/ThisWasInevitable
Summary: Joseph Stern has had better days. Days that don't involve falling down a cliff, injuring his ankle, and losing all his supplies.Barclay's had better days too. Days where he doesn't lose all sense of himself and go charging into the woods in his Sylph form.When their bad days collide, it sets off a series of adventures that will either bring them closer or tear them apart forever.
Relationships: Barclay/Agent Stern (The Adventure Zone)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 155





	1. Bad Day

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is! My contribution to the Sternclay Big Bang.

Barclay has many ways of calming down after an abomination comes to town. Helping Dani in the garden, locking himself in the kitchen to bake sixty batches of cinnamon rolls, things like that. 

Right now, he’s combining two of his favorites. The first is foraging. He’s in one of his secret spots deep in the forest. It’s far, far from the lodge. In fact, he probably isn’t even supposed to be here, but he’s never seen another human out here. Rangers included. It’s still early enough in the spring that isn’t a ton to harvest, but he likes it anyway. 

Just like he enjoys his other method of calming down: fantasizing about a certain FBI agent.

The first month of Stern’s residence at the lodge, Barclay did his best to avoid the other man. No point in putting himself right in the sightline of the person who could shrink his whole world down to a tiny cell. This was complicated by the fact Stern was under the impression this was a normal lodge, meaning it would strike him as odd if someone didn’t change out the linens or pick up the laundry (Stern actually offered to do that one himself if the Lodge had a machine on site; but no way was Barclay risking him finding the safe house on accident). Not to mention Stern spent half is time in the restaurant, sitting at the bar with a cup of coffee and going over his notes. 

And because it was slow, sometimes Stern would talk to him.

“Could I trouble you for more cream?”

“How long have you lived in Kepler?”

“Do you have a spare pen on you?”

“Do you like working here?”

It was that last question that got more than a one sentence response, because it was neither mundane nor an obvious attempt to gather information for his investigation. 

“Yeah” he’d set down the mug he was cleaning, “I do. I know it’s weird to talk about your work like your family, but a lot of the guests have lived here a long time. Y’know, how some people in cities have to live in hotels. And I feel kinda like their older brother sometimes. Plus, I like cooking.”

“I could never do that professionally. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I can hold my own in a kitchen, but I could never handle it as a job. One dinner rush and I’d crack.”

“Really, Mister Special Agent? Scared of my kitchen but you’ll chase down cryptids” He’d chuckled, and it had come out more flirtatious than intended. 

But the instant he’d said it, the tone felt right. And Stern laughed, sipped his coffee with a smile.

“Bigfoot wouldn’t yell at me if I got an order wrong.”

“No, he would not.” Barclay mutters. He’d never yell at his staff

“I’ve watched from back here, some nights while you were working. That, ah, that came out more menacing than I meant ot to be.”

“I gotcha, easy to see me form where you usually sit” He nods towards Sterns preferred chair at the counter, the last one, one that lets him keep his back to a wall and his eyes on the whole room.

“Well, anyway, I saw you making those omelettes, one perfect one after another like it was no big deal.”

“You never made an omelette?”

“I’ve made plenty, just none that are as fluffy and...delicious.” He meets Barclays eyes.

Barclay tosses his towel over his shoulder, “C’mon, lemme show you the trick to it.”

And so he’d found himself teaching the FBI agent how to make the perfect omelette. Then, gradually Stern was in his kitchen a few times a week, often late in the evening or early in the morning. He’ll admit he daydreamed about flirting and cooking at the same time. But he never thought it would happen. But then his fingers started lingering on Sterns, the other man leaning close to watch what Barclay was doing. Stern would says something teasing, blue eyes shining, and Barclay would lose his words and sometimes his entire train of thought. 

As he wanders, basket in hand and gloves on, he thinks about what else he and Stern could do. He’s even gotten into the springs with him once or twice, but damn if he wouldn’t like to see him shirtless in his bed too. Or maybe in a suit, but out with Barclay somewhere nice, somewhere far away and safe where Stern doesn’t look out of place and Barclay isn’t looking over his shoulder every two seconds. 

He rubs his forehead, headache forming behind his eyes. If only there was a way for him to know half the truth. If only Barclay could be sure that honesty wouldn’t land him, Mama, and who knows how many others in jail and/or some shadowing government holding facility.

(Is there any other kind government facility? Huh, maybe the ranger station. Does that count?)

On the next pang, he drops the basket. 

What the hell?

His thoughts bleed together, and all he knows is that he needs to take off his bracelet, he needs to be free he needs to be hidden and oh, oh no he knows what this is-

And then it all goes a bit blurry.

\------------------------------------------------------------

This is not how Duck pictured his day going. 

The abomination was destroyed, the day was saved, now he could fuck off back to his place and rest, maybe play with cat and watch some b-grade thing he grabbed from Redbox. He’d even asked Indrid to join him when the Sylph expressed interest in watching things made after 1995

Instead he’s holding a furious, thrashing Mothman down in the springs.

“Are you sure this is gonna work?” 

“It fuckin better! It’s the only think I got to fix someone who’s goin feral on me.” Mama yells.

“But why isn’t his crystal working?” Aubrey tries not to break her focus, using a spell to help pin Indrid in the water. 

“Hell if I know! Ned, we still all clear?”

“Indeed we are, Mama!” He continues scanning the doors to the changing rooms and the main lodge for any unwanted onlookers. 

Or, rather, one unwanted onlooker. 

“I’m pretty sure I saw Stern leave this morning.” Aubrey adds. 

“At least we got one thing on our si-OW!” Duck pulls back his now-bruised hand glares at Indrid, who hisses and bares his mandibles.

“You got that outta your system?”

Another hiss, followed by a growl, Indrid poofing up slightly before sinking further into the water, leaving only his mouth and up visible. 

“It’s not affecting anyone else?” Duck loosens his hold slightly, and Indrid stops growling.

“Nope, none of the other Sylphs are having this problem.”

“Bite.” Indrid hisses.

“Don’t you fuckin dare, that last one hurt.”

Indrid rises up slightly, but stays close to Ducks legs, “No. Bite. I got bitten.”

“Oh shit, that’s right. I had to heal your arm where the bom-bom got you.”

Indrid nods vigorously, flicking water from his antenna onto Duck, who splutters. 

“Did anyone else get bitten?” Ned looks worried.

“Barclay did. OH _shit_ ” 

Duck winces at the damp as Indrid hugs his legs, chirring, “Right.”

“Oh my god, that means he’s-”

“-gone feral.” Indrid says.

“He’s interruptin us again that’s a good sign. Bad news is, I know Barclay went off by himself this mornin, way the hell out there. So we better start figurin out how to track him down. And thank our fuckin stars Stern ain’t anywhere near him.”

\---------------------------------------------

Well, this could have gone better. 

Stern is flat on his back at the bottom of an incredibly steep hill. The same steep hill that he spent what seemed to be an eternity falling down, his pack catching on a scrubby tree as he did, causing his supplies to spill out in his wake. 

He’s torn between needing to scream in frustration at his own error, at the fact he is a highly trained operative who lost a battle with some loose dirt and gravity, with the desire to wallow in self-pity. 

Then he opts, as he soft often does, for the third option: gritting his teeth and getting himself in order. 

Focusing on the grey sky, he wiggles his toes, then flexes his feet. 

“Shit.” He hisses, pain starting in his ankle and sparking up his right leg. Adds one injury to his mental checklist. His legs, like his torso, are bruised and scratched but otherwise intact. His fingers curl and point, his wrists move how they need to.

Gradually, cautiously, he sits up. Finds a tear in his left pant leg with bleeding skin peeking through, touches his cheek and comes away with blood. It’s not pretty, but it’s not nearly as bad as it could be. 

He eases his crumpled pack off his shoulders to being an inventory. Finds his remaining supplies include: two granola bars, his rain slicker, a flashlight, a half full canteen, and some water purifiers. Gone are: his med kit, all his other food, his firearm, thermal blanket, map, compass, and firestarter. 

Not a heartening tally. And it gets worse when he pats his jacket and finds that while his identification, tucked safely in an inside pocket, stayed on him, his emergency phone did not. The same phone that would allow him to tap into the frequencies used by emergency services in Kepler. 

Peering at the crumbly hillside, he spies the small, black rectangle of his salvation...at almost the very top.

Very well, now that he knows his assets, he can devise possible courses of action. 

Option one: Attempt to climb back up the steep, extremely unstable cliff and retrieve his phone. Pros: could result in him reaching help. Cons: Odds are far higher that he will simply slip and fall, further injuring himself. 

Option two: Fashion a makeshift bandage for his ankle and attempt to navigate to the nearest frontage road, or back towards his car. Pros: Could result in contact with help, would make him feel like he was actually getting somewhere. Cons: Runs counter to known survival advice, and also he’s in some sort of ravine, meaning he would have to find some way back in order to backtrack his steps. And no such way seems available, the steep hill stretching out in either direction. 

Option three: Stay put, set out signals that other travelers might see, make a shelter, and wait for help. Pros: Fits within standard survival advice. Requires less overall energy. Cons: This is a barely charted part of the forest, which he is only allowed into because of his FBI status. And his next report to Hayes is not due for another five days. Which means no one will notice he’s gone until then, at the soonest. And even if someone notices sooner, they won’t come looking for him. 

No one at the lodge will even miss him. In that way, it’s just like being back in the city. 

Option four: Curl into a ball while feeling sorry for self. Wait for the sweet release of death, ideally via exposure rather than Black Bear. Pros: Requires very little energy, as he’s about two seconds away from doing it anyway. Cons: Will not get the chance to ask Barclay to dinner. Also, death.

He pulls his legs up to his chest for comfort, rests his chin on his knees as the gears in his head spin like they haven’t been greased in decades, leaving him with no further ideas. 

A water drop hits his nose. He slowly glares up, several more pattering on his forehead.

“Really?” He yells. 

The sky rumbles in response. 

“Fine. _Fine_.” He scans the nearby trees for an easy shelter. There must be a small one that can act as an umbrella of sorts. He spots a fallen log with some broken branches laying near by. Perhaps he can make something of that. 

He stands, tests his weight on his bad foot once for due diligence, curses said due diligence when pain once again flares through his body. Very well, he will hobble. 

Soon he’s kneeling in dirt that is rapidly turning to mud, trying to make the plant life conform to something, anything resembling a shelter. 

Branches snap behind him, and he turns. 

There’s nothing there. Or, if there is, he can’t see it. And if he can’t see it he really hopes it’s a deer and not something higher on the food chain. 

Another snap, and this time he sees a shape. A big one. One that is now growling and coming closer. When it finally steps out of the underbrush, he’s confronted with a bipedal entity, covered in coppery fur, with a rather human face. And very, very big feet. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”


	2. Familiar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stern has a weird night.

The creature on the ground in front of him is human, so Barclay bares his teeth. The human stays still, fear plain on its face. Good. Humans, by and large, are a threat. Except….except a few. What are their names again?

Is this one of them? He looks more closely.

Stern his mind supplies. Agent Stern, FBI, looking for you.

Barclay growls and steps towards Stern, who holds his hands in front of him, palms up.

“I, I’m not here to hurt you.”

Barclay rolls his eyes, he’s heard that one before. He’s just going to take care of this little problem and be on his way. He growls again, now close enough that he’s looming over the man.

Stern makes a noise and Barclay hesitates. That was a noise his kind of Sylph makes. Usually it means, “I’m a friend” or, more literally “you and I are known to each other.” No human has ever used it in the correct way before. 

“Really. I can’t hurt you. I’m, I’m injured myself.”

Barclay narrows his eyes. It could be a trick. 

Stern makes another noise, this time a series of low, sharp growls, and points to his ankle. The sounds mean, “I am in pain, please help me.”

It’s a mixture of his own instinctive response to the sound and a feeling flitting in and out of his mind like a sparrow that tells him he wants Stern to be okay, that has him kneeling down on the forest floor. Carefully, he runs two fingers along the ankle, still hidden beneath black hiking socks. 

“Ahowww” Sterns fingers crunch in the leaf litter. 

Barclay stares at the injured area, then up at the sky, the rain mild for the moment but coming down in black sheets on the horizon. 

He could just leave Stern here. The man is injured, so he can neither come after Barclay or run off back to town and return with people who do wish Barclay harm. A part of his mind, one that’s been dulled these last few hours, supplies that Stern is resourceful, intelligent. He’ll be fine on his own.

There it is again. That pang at the core of his brain, the echo of it in his chest. He feels it down to his marrow, this sense that if he abandoned Stern here, he would regret it until he was decaying in the soil.

When he looks down and accidentally locks eyes with the human, the feeling becomes so intense that it burns away some of the fog clouding his head. 

He scooches to Sterns right side, and hooks one arm under nylon-cover knees.

“Wait, hold on, what are you HOkay.” Stern clutches his backpack to his chest as Barclay scoops him into his arms. The human continues making half-formed attempts at protest as the Sylph heads back they way he came. Strangely, Stern seems more affronted and surprised than upset; Barclay doesn’t sense much fear coming off him. Although, after catching more than a few branches with his body (Barclay can’t really push them aside, given his hands are busy), Stern tucks his body as close as he can to Barclays torso. 

That feels nice. He likes that he can protect him.

The thought floats from one of the bright spots in his mind, and before it gets lost in the fog, he turns his body so that his shoulders take the bulk of scratches from foliage and branches going forward. 

“Are we going somewhere specific?” Stern cranes his neck, “I, uh, it would not be good for either of us if you exhausted yourself carrying me around here with no purpose and then neither of us could find shelter.”

Barclay snorts dismissively; Stern is no heavier in his arms than the backpack is in the agent’s own. He could carry him for hours without issue. 

“Ah, very well then.” Stern stops looking around, folds his hands atop the backpack. It has a little pin on it that looks like Barclay. 

The wind picks up just as they reach the shelter Barclay found earlier. It’s not much more than a glorified lean-to, but it will keep them out of the rain. He steps into it, and carefully lowers Stern to the ground. 

\---------------------------------------------------

He has questions. So, so many questions. 

Did he make those bigfoot sounds correctly? Does being semi-rescued by a cryptid mean his situation is all that improved? Why did Bigfoot pick him up in the first place? Why does something about the creatures face feel oddly familiar? Did he hit his head harder than he thought when he fell down that fucking hill?

“I wonder why this is here?’ He says aloud. 

Bigfoot ignores him in favor of sitting at the edge of the shelter, gazing out into the woods. 

Maybe he can’t understand Stern when he’s speaking English. But Sterns knowledge of Bigfoot vocalizations only extends so far, and small talk was certainly never something he’d identified during his hours and hours of listening to staticky recordings. 

But talking is calming him. Hopefully, Bigfoot won’t mind if he continues. 

“It’s a bit like the ones the have on the Appalachian trail. Or, so I’ve heard. I don’t really do any hiking. Work doesn’t leave much time for hobbies. Or much else.”

Still no response, though Bigfoot glances back at him before deciding the rain is more interesting. 

“Not that I resent my job. Hardly. It’s an honor to work for such an elite organization and serve my country.” The words come out rote, just like his name and job title, or his preferred Chinese take-out order. 

He can’t remember a time when he believed them.

Bigfoot directs a disbelieving stare his way. Well, he doubts he’s interpreting it correctly. But at this point, projecting his buried emotions onto a cryptid is the least of his problems. 

“It’s the right place for me, I know it is. I’ve dreamed about solving unexplained phenomena since I was little. I used to check out every book about the paranormal in the library, even ones I was far too young to be reading. You were actually the first topic I ever obsessed over. Or, maybe not you, specifically, since it’s unlikely that every sighting was the same creature. Anyway, I thought people were ignorant and cruel to assume the worst of you, especially with such scant evidence. I always thought I’d be the one to find the truth. That’s all I wanted. To find the truth. To prove that maybe the parts of the unknown aren’t as dangerous as our fears wish us to believe.”

Bigfoot is now facing him, sitting cross-legged, pointed ears at attention. 

“The trouble is, people in power seldom get there by playing to our better impulses. Especially somewhere like the FBI. And then they fill the UP with people who think anything they do not understand is dangerous. Or worse, they think of it only as a possible weapon, a way to keep us ahead of our enemies. As if the wonderful, strange shit in the world is worth nothing more than a few million dollars or the opportunity to be the monster in the nightmares of civilians halfway around the world. It’s disheartening, to say the least.” He sighs, tucking his legs up to his chest. On a whim, he makes low, mournful noise, caught between a huff and a bark. 

Bigfoot responds with the same sound, only up a half-octave. 

If Stern’s done his translation correctly, he just conveyed he felt sad, and Bigfoot had responded with, “it’s okay.”

A shiver interrupts his moment of nerdy joy; a pity he can’t ask Bigfoot for a hug. Although, if Bigfoot is an evolutionary offshoot from apes, in the way humans are, he’s likely familiar with physical contact as a means of conveying comfort. 

And Stern’s going to stop himself there. Searches for a new discussion topic. Bigfoot might assume the conversation is over, turn back to watching the woods, or go to sleep, or go for a walk and Stern can’t, he can’t be left alone with his thoughts right now. Not when it’s cold, and grim, and all his brain can supply is if he weren’t so careless, he could be sitting in his normal spot in the lodge kitchen, talking with Barclay about the days customers or troubles, or doing a crossword by the fire while Barclay knits beside him.

“You know” he laughs, nervously, “I wrote about something like this once. When I was much younger. It, well, there used to be a show called “Lost Tapes” that I watched religiously. And in the Bigfoot episode, Bigfoot befriends a park ranger and protects her from other dangers. I was fascinated by the idea and I wrote a rather, uh, flowery story in which a park ranger is rescued after breaking a leg in the woods by Bigfoot, and he takes him to this warm, cozy cave and takes care of him and, uh, well, there’s also a romance element, because I was so very, very repressed in some ways and I’m going to stop talking now because this is embarrassing to hear coming from my own mouth.”

A gust of wind hits them and Bigfoot huffs, stands, and moves to the back wall of the shelter. Stern hobble-crawls to the nearest corner, the darkness creeping at his heels. 

“This is so obnoxious” He grumbles, “I don’t even have my notebook to write down my observations. It’s important to take notes in situations like this. Truthful records are an integral part of doing this job.”

He thinks of his files on everyone in town. On the information not found in them. Wonders, not for the first time, why his instinct is what it is. Doubts the residents of the lodge would protect him they way he is protecting them. 

Barclay would. He hopes he would. Stern just wants to help. 

His stomach groans, and he pulls one of the granola bars from his bag. Bigfoot sniffs the air, spots the shiny package.

Stern breaks the bar in half, hands one to the cryptid. It’s only polite to share your trail supplies with the person who saved you. 

Bigfoot eats it in one bite, grunts softly, and lays down, facing the wall. 

“You’re right. No point in staying up. I shouldn’t burn my energy and my flashlight battery up telling stories to Bigfoot. No matter how fun that sounds.”

He rolls onto his least sore side, tucking his arms inside his jacket. The wind and damp find the barely-there openings, the tiny gaps between layers, and seep into his skin. His injuries announce themselves one by one, from the bruises on his arms to the twinges in his toes. He tucks and turns, adjusts and optimizes his body position. He’s been in situations like this before. It’s mind over matter. Mind over matter. Mind over-

“Motherfucker” He hisses when the wind races up his spine at the same time his ankle twinges. 

There’s a scuff of feet on wood, and then the wind isn’t hugging his back so tightly. Instead, a warm, furry toro presses against it. One long arm drapes carefully over his middle, the other resting near his head. Bigfoot nestles his head on that upper arm, face so close that warm breath ruffles his hair. 

“I, ah, thank you, that’s so much warmer, I’m sorry, I’m sure I was keeping you awake tossing and turning.”

“Shhhhhhhh.” Bigfoot nestles closer. 

“Right, of course, you probably want to sleep.”

A nod.

“I’ll be quiet then.” His eyes shut, only to fly open a moment later, “wait, you can understand me?”

Another nod.

“Oh lord, all that rambling, I’m so sorry. Jesus, I even brought up the fanfiction. Way to go, Stern.” He groans.

“Shhhhhhh.” Bigfoot pats his head the way Stern might pat a fussy dog. 

He closes his eyes once more, but finds he’s still resting on the sorer of his two sides. A light snore tells him his self-appointed blanket is asleep. Cautiously, he turns so that his face is tickled by coppery fur. It’s not as coarse as he assumed it would be, is soft enough that resting his cheek against it is pleasant. There’s a musky smell, and the unfortunate, lingering hint of wet fur. Beneath that is a something familiar, and this time when he closes his eyes, the scent guides him towards his dreams. 

Because, while his waking mind my struggle to parse it, as he drifts away the smell conjures forward images of Barclay sitting close to him, the smell of pine soap and detergent Stern catches the few times Barclay has hugged him. And so as he drops into dreaming he pretends that’s exactly who’s holding him close.

After all, a man can dream. 

\--------------------------------

“Well, this is a fuckin bust.” Duck picks his way over a fallen log.

“Agreed.” Indrid pauses ahead of him, rubbing his temples, “and the cold has done nothing to improve my foresight. I’m more sluggish than I was when we left the lodge.”

“You didn’t have to come y’know.”

“Yes, I do. But, well, I wanted to make up for the stress I caused earlier. I wanted to help find our friend. And, ah, I wanted to keep you safe in case something was lurking out here.”

Through the rain dripping from the brim of his hat, Duck catches Indrid looking at him with an odd smile. Not his usual one, either. This one is small, secretive. Enchanting. 

“Uh, thanks? Glad you like me enough to look out for me.”

“I do. Ah, um, that is, you are my friend now as well. I do not wish you to come to harm. Also you saved my life, albeit rather painfully.”

“Sorry.”

“I know, you apologized, by my count, fifteen times agh, darn it.” Indrid sinks into a mud puddle. He wiggles his leg ineffectively, finally freeing it (sans boot) with a grumble. Duck bends down, retrieving the lost boot.

“Here, balance on me so you can get it back on.”

Indrid rests a hand cautiously on his shoulder as he gets his shoe back on. Duck barely hears him whisper, “you and I are together for a reason.”

“What now?”

“I ah, that is, Mama sent me with you for a reason, at least if my observations were correct. In the event that I were to go feral again, you are the only one who stands a chance of stopping me.”

“Don’t see how that’s possible. I’m just a regular dipshit now, Minerva hasn’t managed to reestablish a connection. I got some swordfightin skill, I’m stubborn, and I ain’t inclined to die, and that makes me an okay fighter. But against you, all feral? Don’t like my chances.”

“That’s not why.” Indrid rests more weight against him, “I…when we were in the spring, you were the first person I recognized. The others, it took awhile for me to remember them, but as soon as I saw you I...I knew you. I couldn’t place much about you, just a feeling.”

“What kind of feelin?” Duck tilts his hat up, as if somehow that will help him decipher the look on Indrid’s face. He’s so close now, Ducks hand still on his lower back to steady him. Duck wonders, without truly meaning to, when the last time Indrid felt truly safe and warm was. 

He should pull him a little closer. 

“It doesn’t matter. Not really.” Indrid steps back and Duck lets go, “Not with what’s coming.”

“Thought you said you couldn’t see that.”

“I can’t. This is what I believe most would call ‘intuition.’ That last abomination seemed so calculated. Why make Sylphs feral and have no influence on humans? What does it have to gain by making it’s enemies more potentially dangerous? A feral Sylph could have easily identified it as a threat and ripped it to shreds. It feels strategic, as if the next one that comes through will be even worse, even more clever.”

“So you’re just assumin the worst?” Duck starts down the trail again, Indrid keeping step beside him this time. 

“I’ve found it to be an excellent strategy.” Indrid shrugs.

“It’ll be alright. We changed bad futures once, ain’t no reason we can’t do it again.”

“I...I admire your positive outlook Duck.”

“Mostly just stubborn.”

“I admire that as well.” Indrid smiles, shivers, and this time Duck wraps an arm around his shoulder, pulling him close to keep him warm. 

“About damn time.” Mama is waiting for them around the next corner, Ned and Aubrey looking equally defeated as Duck and Indrid. 

“I wish I could say I got good news and bad news, but I only got bad.” Mama reaches into her inside pocket, and produces a small, utilitarian cell phone, “This is government issued emergency phone, the kind they give to people who might need to bypass the radio quiet zone. And this one belongs to Agent Stern.”

“Fuck.” Duck mutters.

“Are you quite certain it doesn’t belong to some other wayward traveler?” Ned asks hopefully.

“I saw Stern with his a week ago, and it had this same crack in the corner. It’s his alright. And there ain’t no sign of the man anywhere else. Which means he’s out in the woods.”

“With a probably sylphed-out Barclay.” Aubrey sighs, “wait, uh, Duck, use the walky-talky to ask Dani if Stern maybe came back? He could have dropped his phone and not noticed.”

Duck does, but Dani confirms their worst fears; there’s been no sign of Stern, and it’s nearly ten at night.

“Well, we ain’t gonna solve things standin out here miserable and wet. Let’s go home and figure out what the fuck to do now.” Mama turns towards the truck, Aubrey joining her while Duck and Indrid follow Ned into the Cryptonomica van. Indrid stays close to Duck, opting to join him in the back seat rather than take the passenger seat up front. 

If their fingers bump together on the worn seat, and eventually intertwined on the journey back to the lodge, neither breathes a word of it to anyone else, or to each other. 

\-----------------------------

Barclay wakes up to the patter of rain and the smell of soap. The human, Stern, who’d been tossing and turning when he last shut his eyes, is now sound asleep in Barclays arms. He pets his dark hair absentmindedly. What is he supposed to do with Stern? The human is probably still injured, which means Barclay is trapped in whatever radius Stern can move within. The thought of being unable to flee if needed doesn’t fill him with confidence. 

“Wh’time is it?” Stern’s eyes are still shut. 

Barclay looks over his shoulder; there’s some light, grey and weak, outside their shelter. He remembers, dimly, that the last time he got up for work (work?) it wasn’t light until-

“Five thirty” He answers.

Stern starts, slamming his back into the wall in surprise. Curses, clutching his shoulder and leg.

“It’s okay.” Barclay rests a hand on his cheek, petting it. The petting seemed to work last night to calm Stern down. 

“Shit, I, I’m sorry, I very much thought I was somewhere else.”

“That’s okay too.” Barclay keeps petting him, but this time he hears his own words more clearly. They’re not coming out in English.

They’re coming out in Sylph. 

They weren’t doing that yesterday. Maybe, if he concentrates very hard, he can switch to English so the human stops looking so wide-eyed. 

“Can...you…understand...me?”

Stern continues staring at him, baffled. 

“You” Barclay points to him. 

“Me?” Stern points to himself as well. 

“Yes. Good.” Barclay nods on the first word, gives a thumbs up on the second.

Sleep-hazed blue eyes brighten instantly, “You’re talking to me. You, you have a language beyond those initial vocalizations, don’t you?”

“Yes.” Barclay nods again. 

“I _knew_ it” Stern sits up so fast Barclay scuttles backwards to avoid a knee to the chest, “I knew a humanoid cryptid would have some sophisticated means of communication. And, and if you, that means there’s more than one of you, right?”

Barclay nods, grinning. Wait, should he have admitted that?

Of course he should have. Look at how happy the human is. 

“This is incredible. This is amazing. This, do, do you have a written language a well?”

“Yes.” 

“Eeeeeehahem, excuse me. Uh, hmmm, oh” He points out the front of the shelter at the raindrops, “how do you write the word for rain?” Stern drags his pointer finger through the dirt on the floor, makes the letters R.A.I.N

Barclay scoots beside him, writes out the five characters for the word in Sylph. Stern studies them carefully, and Barclay suspects he’s trying to memorize them. 

“Fascinating. Oh my lord, do you realize what this means?”

“Not really.” Barclays shakes his head.

“We, we could figure out human to Bigfoot translations, you and I could even start on it ourselves, at least with a basic alphabet. My lord,” he looks at him with such an excited smile, Barclays heart pings with affection, “we could make a breakthrough in cryptozoology, biology, and linguistics all in one go. You and I could be partners!”

Barclay likes the sound of that last word, rumbles contentedly to express his agreement. 

“I have so many questions for you.” Stern brushes his hair from his face, about to say something else, when his smile changes. It looks painted on, sadder, “Yes, a lot of questions. About things in your past.”

Barclay huffs, annoyed; he was enjoying how happy Stern was. Now he just looks worried. Stern catches on, shakes himself.

“I need to check my injuries.” He rolls up his mud-stained pant leg, and pokes his ankle.

“Owfuck. I don’t like my odds of being able to travel far on this. But we literally have a power bar left in terms of food. Or, rather, I do. I imagine you have more experience foraging.”

“Yep.”

“If the rain lessens, we could make a try for the road. See if we could find other people.”

“No.” Barclay growls, shaking his head. 

“Look, I imagine you have your reasons for being afraid of people, but I’d prefer to have my injuries looked at by a professional at some point.” Stern crosses his arms, arches an eyebrow. 

Barclay taps his fingers on the ground, thinking, working through the map of the forest he tried to make as he stumbled around yesterday, getting his bearings after whatever happened happened. 

Didn’t he see….

He jumps up, strides to and pokes his head out of the lean-to; the rain is now a mist, and while the dark clouds are still swirling in the sky, none are close by them at the moment. 

He sits back down in front of Stern, “There’s a break in the storm, we should move now.” He erases part of RAIN to emphasize the point. Stern pauses for a beat.

“Oh! It’s stopped?”

“Yes.” He stands, offers Stern his hand to help him up, “come on.”

“Alright, lead the waAYow, damn it. I’m sorry, I don’t think I can walk far.”

Barclay scoops him up without another word. This time the human doesn’t protest, simply settles in for the journey, backpack in hand.

“You know, this isn’t a half bad way to travel.”

\----------------------------------------------

Stern is going to hazard a guess that this building isn’t supposed to be here. 

It’s a cabin, an extremely nice one, that appears to be fitted with solar panels and other markers of an off-grid paradise.

“I suspect Ranger Newton will not be pleased to learn about this.”

Bigfoot nods. 

“And it doesn’t look like anyone’s here, which means it’s use to us is--what are you doing?” Bigfoot steps to the door, and knocks once. Nothing. He tries the knob, and accomplishes the same. Then he takes seven steps back, and squares his shoulder at the door.

“Wait, don’t!” Stern hurries in front of him, “Destruction of property isn’t legal. Nor is it necessary. Come on.” They wander around to the side of the house, but because it’s built on a slight slope, the window is just out of Sterns reach. 

“Damn, I’ll need some kind of-” he turns, finds Bigfoot bending down so he can hop onto his shoulders, “-boost. Thank you.” 

Now able to reach, he pulls out the screen, and slides the first pane back. As luck would have it, their absent hosts didn’t bolt or otherwise secure the front pane, and he slides it back as well. 

“I’ll let you in the front door.” He calls, then pulls himself through. 

“Ow.” He lands on a plush rug, in a living room with an unlit fireplace and couch with lux looking blankets draped over the back. As he hobbles to the door, he notices a few pictures on the wall. The skiing paraphernalia obscures the faces in most of them, but he’s fairly certain he recognizes the wealthy couple that paid to fix the sinkhole. He notes there isn’t even an alarm system in place. The owners genuinely believe no one else will find their secret hideout. 

The open door reveals an anxious Bigfoot.

“See, that was, ow, simple enough.” 

Bigfoot nods, wipes his feet on the bird-festooned welcome mat before coming inside. Stern wonders, not for the first time in the last eighteen hours, how come the cryptid has a strong grasp of human manners. 

“It looks like the kitchen is through there. I have no idea if they have food, but given that their--good lord, that _is_ a wine closet--is stocked, I think chances are high they at least have canned goods. If you, uh, wish to investigate, I am going to see if I can locate first aid supplies and the shower.”

Bigfoot offers a thumbs up, and Stern hobble-hops towards what he hopes is the bathroom. His hunch is correct, and he nearly weeps upon seeing the shower. The cabinet over the sink contains an abundance of first aid supplies, including bandages to tape up his ankle. He turns on the shower, strips down, and rinses what feels like a metric ton of grime from his body, managing to balance on his ankle long enough to feel well and truly clean. 

Grabbing a towel from the shelf, he realizes he has no other clothes, and the ones he was wearing have disappeared. There are, however, two large, fluffy robes hanging on the door, embroidered with an “M” and a “W,” respectively. 

Well, if they didn’t want someone breaking in and wearing their bathrobes, they shouldn’t have built an unlicensed, unsecured cabin in the middle of the Monongahela. 

He wanders back into the living room, now filled with low hum from the small washing machine in one of the closets. When he enters the kitchen to ask how, exactly, Bigfoot knows how to use a washer and dryer, he finds an odd sight.

Bigfoot seems to be on autopilot as he moves through the kitchen, pouring ingredients into a pot on the stove and mixing batter in a bowl. The way he turns, opens cabinets, holds handles and wooden spoons and knives...why does it feel so familiar? 

Why does it make Stern feel homesick? He hasn’t gotten homesick in years.

Bigfoot says something over his shoulder.

“Um, I’m afraid that’s outside my vocabulary.”

Bigfoot points to the pot and repeats one of the words. Says two more while pointing at Stern.

“Do I...want soup?”

A nod.

“Yes, please.” The washer dings, “I’ll go change that, and see if I can find some paper and pens so we can work on more translations.”

He tosses his clothes into the small dryer, opens several drawers containing monogrammed napkins before he locates a pen and pad of paper. By the time he’s back in the kitchen, Bigfoot has set out two bowls and some napkins. As they eat, they work out the translations for basic words that Stern hopes will allow them to communicate more easily: “I am,” lost, home, day, night, quiet, mine, yours, help, and so on. He keeps the paper, folds it up and tries to put it in a breast pocket that isn’t there. 

“One moment.” He heads back into the living room, sets the paper on an end table as he pulls out his now-dry clothes and immediately puts them on. Returns the bathrobe to it’s hook, sighing happily at being so warm and clean and awash in the elation of new-found knowledge. 

Doubling back, he tucks their highly abridged bigfoot to English dictionary into his backpack. The bag shifts to the side as he does, and it reveals a woven bracelet, also laying on the table.

Barclay’s bracelet. He’d know it anywhere. And it came into the cabin with his backpack. The backpack that Bigfoot carried in, Stern having handed it off in order to break into the house. 

The cook mentioned two nights ago that he was going off into the woods for the day to do some foraging, and that if Stern wanted, when he got back he could explain his finds and the finer points of plant identification. And Stern has never seen Barclay without his bracelet. 

Maybe there’s a less horrifying explanation than the one flooding his mind with horrible images. Maybe he won’t have to face a day when Barclay’s name is listed alongside all the other disappearances. 

He tucks the bracelet into one hand, crosses to the small fireplace and picks up the poker. 

Bigfoot is doing dishes, as domestic and docile as a Labrador by a fire. 

“You have exactly one minute to explain to me how this came into your possession.” He holds the bracelet out in his palm.

The creature takes one look and growls. 

“Where did you get it?” 

“Mine.” Bigfoot snarls, closing the space between them so quickly Stern barely has a chance to raise his weapon.

“Don’t take another step. I don’t want to harm you, I never even wanted to make such a threat in the first place. But I have to know.”

“Mine.”

“No, it isn’t. It belongs to a friend, and I swear if anything has happened to him-”

Bigfoot wrenches the poker from his hand, bending it so easily that Sterns stomach roils with fear. When the creature lunges at him, he tries to dive away only to put all his weight onto his injured ankle, hitting the hardwood gracelessly.

The weight of a seven foot cryptid dropping down on him is just as painful as he imagined it would be. He twists in on himself, slams an elbow into Bigfoot's jaw and a knee into his stomach. Another snarl, and claws dig into his neck shoulder. 

“ _Mine_.” 

Stern clutches the bracelet close, “Stop lying to me you, you monster.” He turns his head, manages to bite down on the hand inching towards his throat. 

Bigfoot howls, and on the next strike Sterns head slams back into the floor. His vision whites out at the edges, but he refuses to stop struggling.

“I have to know if Barclay is alright.” He chokes out, just as rough-padded fingers wrench his hand open. Yelps in pain when he feels pressure on his already-bruised ribs.

Bigfoot freezes, tilts his head. Presses again and Stern clamps his mouth shut, refusing to make the sound again. He’s getting lightheaded. 

“Barclay, please, I need, Barclay-”

The weight on his chest disappears as Bigfoot sits up and slips the bracelet around his wrist. 

“Right.” Barclay’s voice is rough, shaky, as if unsure of it’s own ability to function, “what do you need?”


	3. Half an Explanation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stern learns a lot of things.

“What, and I cannot stress this enough, the FUCK IS GOING ON?”

“Uhh” Barclay scratches his head, moving sluggishly “So, I’m Bigfoot. Or, at, least, I’m a Bigfoot. Definitely the one in Ned’s video. Um, something happened to me that made me take off the disguise I use. And then I found you in the woods.”

Stern sits up cautiously, wondering if he blacked out during the fight and is now dreaming. Or dead and in the afterlife with Barclay. Who is also dead.

To combat that morbid thought, he reaches out and strokes Barclays beard; scratchy-soft and oh so real. Barclay shuts his eyes, leaning into the touch so much that Stern is now cupping his cheek. He ought to pull away, give Barclay his space, but as soon as he rests his head in Sterns hand the pain and confusion evaporate from his face. 

So he stays put, Barclay nuzzling and rubbing against his hand, small sighs escaping him. The more he relaxes, the closer he gets, head drooping and back curling forward, thighs relaxing from where they’re keeping Stern trapped on the ground. Just as Stern worries the cook might collapse, he lifts a hand to brace on the counter, breathing slow and deep. 

“Barclay?”

“Hmmm?’

“We need to talk.”

“‘Bout what?”

“Would you like the list alphabetically or in order of urgency?”

“Gimme a sec, still feeling kinda fuzzy.”

“You appear far less fuzzy than before.” 

Barclay chuckles, “God, I missed being able to talk with you like this. Even if it was pretty fucking fun watching you get excited trying to make the worlds first s-, bigfoot to human dictionary.”

“I, Barclay I have been looking for you most of my career, fascinated by the prospect of your existence since I was young. There are so many things I want to know about you.”

“You already know a bunch of stuff about me, agent.” The title is fond, Barclay reluctantly standing. 

“I know a lot about Barclay, but very little about Bigfoot. Or, rather, I know so many rumors and so few truths. God this, this is incredible.” He takes the offered hand, steadying Barclay once he’s standing. 

“I love it when you get all geeky.”

“Geeky? Please, this is a defcon six geek-out at most.” He grins, hand on Barclays shoulder. 

“Here, I’ll make you a deal; lemme go get cleaned up, because if I go much longer without a shower I start to smell less “musky mountain man” and more “wet St Bernard. Then we can talk more about all this. Okay?”

Stern nods and Barclay squeezes his shoulder before heading into the bathroom. 

The patter of water on ceramic underscores his whispers.

“I found bigfoot. I cannot believe I am friends with bigfoot. This is amazing, this is groundbreaking, this is…” he thinks about Hayes, about the missing persons files, about the months of dead-ends and the fear he will live out his career as a failure.

“This is bad.”

\-----------------------------

Barclay showers quickly, the urge to be near Stern again soon overwhelming him. As he runs soap across his chest, he tries to recreate the anxiety he felt in the past whenever he imagined Stern discovering he’s Bigfoot. It doesn’t come, instead his mind offers him the way Stern tapped the pen excitedly as they worked on their dictionary, how happy and relaxed he seemed around Barclay’s Sylph form, something not all humans could manage. 

Grabbing the remaining bathrobe and finding it too small to tie, he keeps a towel around his waist and the robe slung over his shoulders. When he steps back into the cozy living room, Stern is sitting on the couch, gnawing his lip with an expression Barclay knows well.

 _There’s_ the anxiety. 

“Barclay, why didn’t you tell me the truth sooner?”

Barclay blinks, incredulous, “Because you’re investigating me for a string of disappearances, and cryptid plus government agent doesn’t generally mean good things for the cryptid.”

Stern gives an insulted huff, “Unlike some of my colleagues, I do not believe in shooting first and asking questions later. I want to know the truth, Barclay. If there’s a reasonable explanation, I’ll listen to it. I might even be able to help you, figure out a way to close the file without altering unwanted parties to your existence. Please, just be honest with me.”

There’s a simple explanation. Simple, with the potential to betray everyone else he cares for and start and interplanetary war. 

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why?” A steely, inquisitive glint is in the agent’s eye.

“Because the truth isn’t mine to tell you, okay? If it was all up to me I would. Maybe. Look, there is so much at stake, and there’s no fucking way I’m going to be the one who fucks it up.”

“Barclay, you realize that puts me in an impossible position right? If you won’t tell me the truth, I have to work based on the evidence, and the evidence does not paint a kind picture. Also, you’ve just confirmed what I’ve suspected for awhile; whatever strange occurrences are happening in Kepler, there’s more than a few people connected to you involved in them,”

“Damn it.” Barclay smacks his hand into his face with a groan. How could he have been so clueless? No matter how handsome he is, no matter how much Barclay likes him, Stern is someone trained to suss out and expose lies. 

Barclays life is 85% lies. 

“Look, what if I-”

“No.” Barclay drops his hand, glares at Stern, “I’ve already said more than I should have, apparently. So I’m not going to talk about it anymore. Maybe, maybe, when we get home I’ll be able to tell the truth. “

And maybe Mama will just chuck Stern into the cellar in the room next to Thacker.

Stern sighs, “Okay. Until we’re back, I promise I won’t raise the subject again.”

Barclay relaxes, slumping onto the arm of a nearby easy chair, “Thanks. Uh, so, what do we do now?”

“I imagine there’s a map of the area in here somewhere. If we can find that and, ideally, a compass, we should be able to figure out a route back to the lodge. And, uh, you may wish you wash your clothes so you can, um, wear more than a towel.”

Stern’s cheeks have a distinct dusting of pink. Barclay casually shifts the robe off his shoulders and goes to sit by the fire. The agent tracks him the entire way.

“Unless they gave you x-ray vision when you joined the UP, gonna need to do more than stare to see what’s under the towel.”

“Guh. Uh, ahem, I am going to look for a map. Can you search down here for a compass once you’ve warmed up?”

“Yep.” Barclay gives a thumbs up, stretches out on the floor. The little stove puts out quite a bit of heat, making him pleasantly goose-bumpy. It’d be warmer, though, if Stern took a break from his hunt to lay down on top of him. 

Easy, Barclay.

Even if he can’t get a noticeable boner, he’d really rather not spend the evening low level, frustratedly horny. 

He sits up, stretches, and tosses his dirty clothes in the washer. There wasn’t a compass in the kitchen, (it’s not a logical place, but rich people are wild), so he kneels down to look at short shelf, full of knickknacks that probably cost more than the Lodge’s utilities, and books that have never been read.

The itching starts in his fingers, claws and bites it’s way up his arms as the headache splits across his temples. He doubles forward with a pained growl.

“Barclay?” Sterns footsteps hammer down the stairs, and then a warm hand rubs his back, “what’s happening?”

“I don’t, argh, fuck, don’t know, hurts, and I can’t, it gets all fuzzy, I need, need to be out of this skin, I can’t stay in it, it’s choking me.” He yanks the bracelet off, and the itching and headache cease. 

When he turns, still on his knees, Stern is still kneeling behind him, poised to put distance between them. 

“Is that...helping?” 

“Yeah, feels way better.”

Stern gasps, “You can speak English now!”

“Uh, yeah? Oh. OH, oh hell yeah, I’m a bilingual bigfoot again. That’s gonna make things way easier.”

“Definitely, though I’m kind of concerned. What if you can only stay so long in your human form before needing to revert to your true state? That could put you in serious danger.”

“No shit. I got no fucking clue why it’s happening, so I don’t know how to stop it.”

“Maybe there’s an answer at the lodge?”

Barclay gives him a small, warning growl, and Stern holds up his hands, “Nono, that wasn’t an attempt to investigate. It just, it stands to reason that since the lodge is where you feel safest, it may also be the place that holds answers about how all this” he waves at Barclay’s Sylph form “works.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Sorry, still feel more, like, on edge when I’m like this. Which isn’t the norm.”

“How about we rest up? I found a map upstairs, and even without a compass, I imagine the two of us have enough wilderness survival training or, uh, experience, to navigate without one.”

“That sounds good. Beds are upstairs?” He stands, stomps (even when he wants to be subtle, his form means he ends up stomping) up the small flight of stairs.

“Bed. Singular.” Stern’s voice is tight.

Barclay turns halfway up the steps to look at him; the agent is standing, head held high and hands behind his back, as if awaiting orders. If Barclay wanted that bed to himself, he could get it, no problem. 

“How about you take the bed, Joseph? You;re still injured, and all things considered think you’ve had a rougher day than me.”

Stern shakes his head, “Barclay, you won’t fit on that couch. I will. Barely.”

“Peril of being tall.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Barclay holds out his hand, “C’mon agent, already spooned once on this trip, doing it one more time won’t make it any weirder.”

Stern chuckles, so awkwardly and sweetly that Barclay’s heart glows. Then he steps forward and takes his hand.

\-------------------------------------------------- 

They fell asleep side by side, Stern is positive of this fact. 

Yet when he wakes up, it’s on Barclays chest, the cryptid having rolled him on top of him in the night. He shifts and Barclay gives a soft, whiny yip and cuddles him closer. 

Well, working for the UP was fun, but he must accept his new life as Bigfoot’s security blanket.

As he lays there, he lazily pets his fingers across the dark, copper-tinted fur, takes in the ways this face is different than Barclay’s usual one. He’s not one to indulge in flights of fancy, but right now his mind offers a dozen of them: Barclay and himself, laying just as they are but in his room at the lodge, the morning stretching out before them. The two of them cuddled up on a couch, the cook gently kissing his neck, whispering about how much he’s wanted this. Barclays body warm and bare against his own under the covers of his bed back home. 

He can’t remember a time he wanted something as badly as he wants this moment to last.

Barclay yawns, teeth sharper than those of a hominid relative ought to be, and smiles when he notices Stern.

“Morning.”

“Good morning.”

“How’s the ankle?” Barclay pets his hair, makes no comment about their position. 

He flexes it to test, winces, “better, but I’d be lying if I said I was looking forward to hiking on it. I hate the thought of asking you to carry me again. I intend to just hobble along.”

“How about we figure we can take it easy and you can hobble to your stubborn heart’s content. But if you start really hurting, I reserve the right to piggyback you.”

He nuzzles the fur beneath his cheek with a laugh, “works for me. I know better to argue with a Bigfoot when he’s on a mission. Or a Barclay before he’s had his coffee.”

A toothy grin, “Got that right, my special agent.”

\--------------------------------------------

“Do you have siblings?” Stern hobbles along, supporting his weight on Barclays arm. 

“Yeah. And no, far as I know none of them are responsible for other Bigfoot sightings. They all stayed, uh, closer to home than I did.”

“Good to know.” Stern takes a moment to maneuver over a tangle of roots, “But I was actually going to ask if you missed them.”

“I do. The, the way I grew up, kids are raised communally in some ways. So you grow up with a ton of people who are functionally siblings. Guess that’s kinda why the lodge feels so much like home.”

“You see them more like siblings than like kids?” 

“Definitely, no matter how many times Jake calls me dad.” He wants to add that Jake is technically older than him, but that would open the door to the wrong kind of questions, “you said you had two sisters, right?”

“Yes. I’m the youngest, which has it’s pluses. By which I mean two teenage girls who would tease me at home but unleash hell on anyone who tried to pick on me. Vivian was on the LaCrosse team and I am fairly certain there’s one homophobe who still has nightmares about her.”

“Damn.”

Stern sighs, leans against more without noticing, “I haven’t seen her or my nieces in person in three years.”

“Jesus, I’m sorry.”

“It’s not the end of the world. And there’s Skype and that sort of thing, which is wonderful. I was just...I was looking forward to being part of the family as it grew. My career, my ambitions, they make it unlikely that I could ever settle down and make a family of my own. I wanted to still have that connection with the people I loved. So far that is not working out how I wanted it to.”

Barclay glances at the path ahead, sees instead a familiar cluster of buildings in his minds eye. He knows the Quell took the town two years ago. Even when he goes back to Sylvain, he’s never been able to stray beyond the palace or wherever they’re meeting to discuss Pine Guard matters. Mama tried more than once to see if she could arrange for them to meet Barclay’s family. Nothing came of it. 

He doesn’t even know if they’re alive. 

“Oh, I’m, I’m sorry.”

His gaze snaps back to Stern, face full of sympathy, “here I am complaining about that when you’ve clearly been away from home for a long time.”

“Hey, it’s not a competition.” He rests his hand atop Sterns, drawing his thumb along his wrist. Pretends not to notice the little, pleased sound Stern offers at the ongoing contact. 

It would be weird to kiss a human when he’s in his Sylph form, right? Especially Stern? That could be bad if the agent doesn’t feel the same way, and he probably doesn’t, right?

If the universe doesn’t give him a sign not to, he’s going to do it anyway.

“Y’all I see movement up ahead!?”

He slips on his bracelet at the unfamiliar voice, Stern scanning the treeline. 

“We’re not out of the off limits area yet, are we?”

“Don’t think so.”

A second voice joins the third, “Sounded big, whatever it was!”

“Excuse me, but in the even you’re hunters, we’re humans and not big game, please do not shoot us.” Stern calls through the trees, brushing the last of Barclays fur from his jacket.

Two mean, clad in camo, come into view. One wears a red ball cap, the other carries a small rifle. 

“Damn, what are you fellas doin all the way out here?”

“We’re lost.” Barclay feels that strange itch again; these are unfamiliar men, and he wants to protect himself. Protect Stern.

“No shit, but why were you out here in the first place?” Red ball cap asks.

“We are amateur cryptozoologists.” Stern doesn’t bat an eye as he lies, “we were investigating a Bigfoot sighting and made some miscalculations.”

“Bigfoot hunters huh?”

“I suppose you could call it that, yes.” Barely masked distaste in Sterns voice this time. Barclay suppresses as smile; he’s been treated, on at least two occasions, to Stern’s rants on televised Bigfoot hunters and their poorly planned missions and dubious motives. 

“Well ain’t that a coincidence; so are we.”

“Really? Uh, did you manage to get clearance to be in this part of the woods. Because we didn’t.”

‘Nah, better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?” Red hat grins.

Barclay spots Sterns rule-following eyes twitching.

“You wouldn’t happen to know the way back to the road, would you?” 

“Sure do. C’mon, just gotta stop off at our camp to let our crewmates know what we’re doin, and we can get you there.”

“Thank god.” Barclay bends slightly so Stern can loop an arm over his shoulders, and the two of them fall into step behind their new friends. 

Soon, they reach a clearing of pines in which four, one-man tents are strewn about with recording equipment. A third man sits tinkering with a mic, a fourth with the small camp stove. 

“Fellas, we found some fellow Bigfoot hunters in the woods. Boys, this here is Jeff.”

The man holding the mic looks up and waves.

“And that there is, uh, ah hell, what was it again. Bob?”

“Boyd.” The British accent is clipped as the man turns, “I must say I'm not keen on others knowing we’re here.”

“Don’t worry, we’re kindred spirits.” Barclay offers, Stern nodding along. 

Boyd looks Barclay up and down, turns his attention to Stern. As Barclay glances between the two men, he gets the sense Stern and Boyd are running the same calculations in their heads, flipping through a mental index of faces. Boyd takes out a pocket knife, cleaning under his nails. 

“Bigfoot hunters. That’s what they told you?”

“Yep.”

Boyd chuckles, “It’s a good thing you gents took me up on my offer. Because I happen to know that at least one of them is lyin. That one,” he points the knife at Stern, “is an FBI agent. With the Unexplained Phenomena division.”

“You must be mixing me up with someone else. I’m a cryptozoologist like yourselves.”

“That so? Search ‘im.” Boyd jerks his head. Red cap and Jeff exchange a look. As red cap makes his way over to Stern, something slips into Barclays pocket, out of view of the hunters. 

Stern calmly raises his hands, allowing the man to search his pockets and pat him down.

“Nothin on him.”

Boyd smirks, walking breezily up to Stern. The agent squares his shoulders, not budging an inch. But instead of stopping in front of him, Boyd curves, hand reaching into Barclay’s pocket and producing Sterns identification, 

He flashes it at the other men, reads it off as he does, “Special Agent Joseph Stern, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Unexplained Phenonmena.Not a bad palm-off for an amateur. Like I said” he tosses the ID to red cap, who catches it, “lucky to have me.”

“What’s a fed doin all the way out here? And who the fuck are you?” Jeff turns to Barclay.

“He’s my guide.” Sterns stance shifts, friendly, conversational. “Between the storm and my injuring myself, we got turned around. And yes, I’m with the UP. But we were telling the truth about our reason for being in the woods; I’m here investigating a Bigfoot video. No luck, I’m afraid.”

“That wouldn’t be the video from the Cryptonomica would it?” Boyd asks casually.

“Yes, though clearly many people beyond Kepler have seen it.”

Boyd turns, studying Stern again, “No luck?”

“None.”

“What about that fur on your jacket?”

Stern’s gaze doesn’t move. But Barclay looks, the feral part of his mind moving before he can stop it and taking the bait. There’s no fur on Sterns coat.

“Lads, find a way to restrain our guests.”

“Just over some fur you think you see? That’s a bit of reach.” Stern crosses his arms, but seems otherwise unbothered. 

“That and some of us are still reportin to parole officers and can’t afford to be ratted out for tresspassin on federal property.”

“Holding people prisoner is a worse choice. And one I am less willing to flex my federal muscles getting you out of.”

“Not if it comes with a big cash reward and finding a monster that the government wants too.”

Red cap grabs Sterns arm, yanking him in a quarter circle in the process. The agent grimaces as the injured ankle twists. Barclay growls.

“Easy, big fella, wouldn’t want to do somethin foolish, now would you?” Boyd double-ties his hands behind his back and shoves him down against the nearest tree. Stern joins him with an “oof,” their shoulders bumping together. 

“Start gettin the cameras ready, double time, I think we have a lead we won’t want to miss.” Boyd herds the crew over to pile of equipment.

“Ned fucking Chicane, I swear to fucking to god, the list of favors that man owes me is longer than my fucking arm for all the trouble that video’s caused.” Barclay mutters, turning in time to see hurt skitter across Sterns features. 

He distracts himself by twisting and testing the ropes. Even with only his residual Sylph strength, he can break them easily. 

Sterns fingers close around his as he whispers, “Not yet. Give me a bit longer to plan. They’re armed, and I can’t move quickly. That’s a considerable disadvantage. I can’t get a read on Boyd either; he doesn’t seem reckless, but he reminds me of a cornered dog ready to bite.”

“Okay. Okay.” Barclay breathes deep, that itch creeping up his arms again, “I’m deferring to you, but we still need to move fast.”

It’s spreading into his chest now, that need to be without this disguise, that need to run. There has to be some way to stall it, to buy Stern time. It’s the least he can do for landing them here. He sorts through the memories of the last three days.

“Joseph, can I, uh, can I rest my head on your shoulder?”

“Of course.”

Barclays slumps sideways, awkwardly, keeps the contact light at first. But as their captors continue conversing, Jeff raising his voice in argument with Boyd, Sterns cheek ruffles Barclay’s hair. A nose brushes the crown of his head, followed by the ghost of a kiss. 

The itch subsides, retreats back to the middle of his arms. He glances, tries to catch Stern in the act, but the agent is already looking at Boyd, coming towards them with a scowl. 

“Hate to break the tender moment, lads, but we need to have a chat.”

Boyd crouches down, voice low. 

“Alright, I’m givin you one last chance to make this easy.”

“If I tell you the truth about what we found out, will you let us go?”

“Maybe.”

Stern rolls his eyes, continues, “The video is a fake. I’ve been scanning these woods for weeks and have found no evidence that there’s anything out of the ordinary going on.”

Boyd shakes his head, tone scolding, “You gotta stop tryin to get one over on me.”

“You expect me to buy that you’re a true believer? Because you strike me more as an opportunist than anything else.” All pretense drops from Sterns voice, like someone tossing aside a coat.

“There, finally some honesty. Yeah, I need money and took up with this lot because it was some quick cash. But, I did see that video. I know a ‘Ned Chicane’ scheme when I see one, and that video don’t fall into that category. Whatever Ned got on tape, it wasn’t a hoax.”

“What happens if you find Bigfoot?” 

“If that bugger does anything other than come quietly, my guess is one of my compatriots will shoot him.”

“Of course.” Stern spits the words into the dirt. Barclay’s heart rate hits the stratosphere as he suppresses a growl. 

“Think on it a bit more.” Boyd stands with a smile, walks back towards the others. 

“It won’t be the first time someone’s hunted me that way. Hell, I’ve been shot at least twice that I can remember.”

“Jesus.” Stern looks at him, heartbreak plain on his face. 

“I’m not saying that it was fun. Just that it’s been survivable. So far.”

Stern gazes at him, the same look he’s caught ducking down behind a book in restaurant late at night, or when Stern slips into the springs, staying steadfastly on the opposite side of the pool. 

Then the agent stands, calling out, “Boyd, can I have a word?” He hobbles a few trees over, Boyd catching him by the arm when he nearly knocks the tattooed man over while struggling to balance.

Barclay strains to hear the words passing between them, the desire to be feral racing back up his limbs, twisting into his spine, leeching into his lungs. The buzzing rush of blood and instinct in his ears splitting the conversation into pieces. 

“Let him….I’ll stay...can promise he won’t come back for me.”

“If you think…….another thing….”

“Please…”

He needs to take his bracelet off. He’s going to take it off, the urge is getting to strong, even though it puts them both in immediate danger, he can’t stop it, if only-

“HOLY FUCK”

“Oh god, fuck, Jeff where’s the rifle?”

Barclay freezes, fingers halfway to his bracelet. A massive, red creature rears to it’s hind legs across the clearing, ripping branches from trees as it emerges from the forest. It’s a warped version of a bear, definitely not from Earth, and definitely not the abomination they faught a few days ago.

The monster roars.

“Like I said; not a hoaz.” Is all Boyd says before the camp stove connects with his head and he falls prone behind a lof. Barclay snaps the ropes, running for Stern as the bear descends on the other three men. 

Two gunshots, screams, ripping flesh and cries of horror behind him as he tears the ropes from Sterns arms. 

“We have to run, now. If you can’t I’ll fucking throw you over my shoulder, we’ve gotta-”

A limp body narrowly misses him as it slams into a nearby tree. The roar is deafening this time, and when he looks over his shoulder he sees the monster muzzle deep in red-caps chest cavity, the other man dead beside him, throat torn. It sniffs the air, zeros in on Stern with a snarl. 

Barclay steps in front of him, uses his Sylph form to completely block Stern from the charging monster. Just as they connect, he uses the bears momentum to launch it sideways. It stumbles, shakes it head, and charges again. 

It had gone easy on him the first time. Now, the impact is enough to send him flying backwards and into a tree trunk. He howls and swipes his claws in the air, taking a chunk from the monster’s shoulder. It rears up, undeterred, front paws in a perfect downward trajectory to pierce his skin and shatter his ribcage.

_Bang_

The monster screams, enraged, when the bullet connects. 

Ten feet away, the rifle remains poised to fire in Sterns hands. 

It’s as if Barclay ceases to exist, the creature forgetting him in favor of barreling towards Stern, who fires twice more, terror becoming plainer on his face each time the monster fails to die. It’s limping, but in a fight between a limping hell bear and a limping human, Barclay knows with terrible certainty who’s going to lose. 

He sprints, but the monster two strides from Stern. With every ounce of energy he has, he throws his body forward and into the bear, wrongfooting it. As it tumbles groundwards, Stern spins out of the path of it’s fall on his good ankle, firing at point blank range as the creature’s claws graze his chest, five red lines oozing in their wake. 

“Fuck, Joseph!”

“Ow, fuck, it’s, it’s not too deep, make sure that thing is dead before you do anything else, I’ll be alright until then.”

Barclay picks up the rifle from where the agent dropped it, still slippery with the blood of at least two people. Pokes the monster with the tip of the barrel. When it doesn’t respond, he tilts it’s head up and finds it’s eyes glazed over. 

There’s something familiar about it. Like a nightmare he was never quite able to shake. 

“It’s dead. Thank fucking god.”

No answer, not even a grunt of pain.

He turns, finds Stern still doubled over, arm across his chest where it moved to check the injury. Slowly, the arm drops, and Stern straightens.

“Joseph? You okay, babe?”

Sterns blue eyes are dull, growing darker as Barclay watches. Traces of his friend drop away expression by expression, muscle by muscle, as his face goes blank, his frame unnaturally still. It reminds him of another face, a loss from years ago.

Thacker. 

“No.” He shakes his head, voice shaking, “no, Joseph, please. Not you too.”

Sterns eyes focus. 

And then he growls.


	4. Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stern meets a familiar face.

“It’s comin' from that clearin!” Duck yells as he, Ned, Aubrey, and Indrid barrel through the woods. Indrid’s foresight is seventy percent recovered, meaning he was able to lead them to the quadrant of woods most likely to contain Stern and Barclay.

The roaring and screaming started a half-second after the Sylph turned to Duck and said, simply, “Oh dear.”

“I don’t hear it anymore, is that a good thing?” Aubrey’s hands are already sparking, in spite of Duck’s repeated warnings about what will happen if any of them start a forest fire. 

“Yes and no. We’re about to have a different problem than the one I foresaw. “

“What do you--hoh shit, Barclay, man we’ve been lookin all over for you.” 

The cook turns, surprised, back flat against the tree he was peeking around “Guys, you gotta help me. It’s Stern he’s-”

“Aw fuck, did he find you?” Aubrey extinguishes her hands. 

Before Barclay can explain, Duck is yanked backwards by four spindly arms, out of the path of an enraged Stern. 

“I believe Barclay was trying to tell you that the agent has become possessed.”

“Yeah, think I got that now, ‘Drid.” Duck steps forward, ready to subdue the threat. Or he tries to. But the arms tighten around him, and Indrid brings his wings forward to cover him further.

“That will not end well. Aubrey, can you try knocking him out. That has a high chance of working.”

A small bolt of black light zips through the air, evaporates before it hits Stern.

“Oh COME ON!” Aubrey yells in the direction of the sky. She tries again, this bolt of light hitting but merely immobilizing him, the agent still snarling at them and jerking against the barrier of the spell. 

“Uh, so, not sure how long that’s gonna last, and also pretty certain he’s gonna hurt himself trying to resist the spell that way.”

Barclay approaches Stern. Looks down at him sadly, the man baring his teeth in response. 

“I’m real fucking sorry about this.”

The punch connects and Stern crumples, Aubrey carefully lowering him to the ground. 

“...You and Duck have a remarkably similar approach to problem solving.” Indrid says, retracting his wings and slipping his glasses back on. 

Barclay ignores him, ignores all of them, kneeling down to scoop Stern into his arms. 

“Can we go home now?” The cook asks softly.

“Yeah, buddy we, can.” Aubrey rests her hand on his arm, smile sympathetic and tone familial. 

“Right after Ned retrieves the person from behind that log.” Indrid points and Ned, befuddled, walks a path over to the indicated spot. 

“I don’t suppose I can sway you into leaving him here?”

“No, Ned.” Duck says. 

“Very well.” Ned hauls the man up by his hands, dragging him across the forest floor, “come on you royal thorn in my side, off we go.”

They load everyone into the van, Barclay sitting in the far back with Stern cradled in his lap. Duck suggested they restrain the agent, but the cook growled at him and he decided to leave it be. 

As Ned drives them back towards the lodge, cool fingers brush the back of Duck’s hand.

“Apologies for restraining you earlier.”

“S’fine.”

“I foresaw a great many futures where Stern injured you in the fight, due to your desire to not actually harm him. I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing you hurt. I acted on my own interests, rather than allowing you to make the choice.”

“Hey, I’m still gettin used to not havin my powers. Nice to have someone lookin out for me when I’m about to do somethin bone-headed”

“Oh. Ah, in that case, I am glad I can help.” 

Indrid turns back to the window, though Duck can feel him keeping an eye on him in the reflection. Unsure of what else to do, he once again reaches across the recently vacuumed upholstery and takes Indrid’s hand.

Two hours later, he and the Sylph are on opposite ends of the couch, the space between them occupied by enough awkwardness to power two hundred teenage coming of age movies. 

They’re waiting for Barclay to finish his soak in the springs. It took half an hour to get him in there due to his unwillingness to surrender Stern over to anyone else. Only Mama was finally able to coax him into handing off the still-unconscious agent to her. Indrid promised to explain what had happened to him once he was fully cured of the effects of the abomination.

“I still don’t get how Barclay was mostly himself when we found him. You were fuckin feral after just a few hours, sorta assumed he’d be real far gone after a few days.”

“I believe it has to do with what he was in proximity to. Or, rather, who.” Indrid looks up from his sketchbook, “Do you recall how I said you were the first thing I recognized while under the influence of the abomination’s poison? Had you not been able to get me into the springs, I believe staying close to you would have had a stabilizing effect, if not an outright curative one.”

“Why?”

“Whatever the source of the abominations may be, it has some blind spots. Things it doesn’t think will influence the outcomes or undo the effects it has on our world. Affection, compassion, and so on.” Indrid crumples a drawing and tosses it over his shoulder, “It’s been stymied by them more than once. Your willingness to spare Billy, rather than dispatching him, for instance.”

“You’re sayin this one had a blind spot for what, friendship or somethin?”

The look Indrid gives him over the rims of his glasses is amused, “Yes.”

“So...the 'or somethin’, that was what you were feelin towards me, wasn’t it?” Duck smirks, scooching closer.

“Indeed.” Indrid sets the sketchpad on the floor, turns back with open arms. 

Duck bypasses the hug, grabbing him by the front of his sweater and pulling him into a kiss. Indrid hums, looping his arms around Ducks shoulders. 

“Mmmhhm” Indrid chuckles, pulling back, “that’s twice as delightful to experience as it is to see coming.”

Duck is ready to demand that they find the nearest empty room with a locking door when there’s a _kwa-thunk_ of the double doors leading to the springs. Barclay pads inside, human and looking like he lost a fight with the universe. 

“Feelin better?”

“Yeah, kinda, thanks. Uh, Indrid, now will you tell me what the fuck happened to me”

“Of course, though I need you to answer one question: did you feel you had better control over your faculties once you were around Stern?”

Barclay stares at the hardwood for a moment, then nods, “Yep. The longer we were together, the easier it was to feel like myself, not feel as feral.”

“Excellent.” Indrid claps his hands, “Then it’s time for us all to have a talk. For while I know for certain what the abomination that contaminated the both of us was up to, it will take all of us to work out what, exactly, has taken your special agent from you.”

\--------------------------------------------

Stern can’t tell if he’s dead. 

The fact that this is the second time in two days he’s wondered such a thing is a testament to just how shitty a week this is.  
He looks down and, for the first time since the world went red-misted, sees himself. Knows for certain that this isn’t his physical body. His conciousness, maybe his spirit. 

**Joseph Stern?**

“Yes? Who are you?”

**I am the Quell.**

**“The Quell. Uh, I don’t mean any offense, but I need slightly more context.”**

**You will understand soon. You and I are one now**

“What, no, absolutely not, I work for the government, that’s close enough to a hivemind for me.”

You do not have a choice.

“Now see here, I, oh, pardon me.” He bumps into a figure in the mist and is suddenly face to face with a man in his fifties. 

“Not to worry. Damn near impossible to make sense of space. See The Quell got another one of us.”

“Apparently. Wait a minute, this is going to sound weird, but you look very familiar.” Stern tics his fingers in the air, counting off names, matching them to faces, dates and locations of disappearance. Finds the one that matches, “Are you Arlo Thacker?”

“Yes indeedy. And it sounds like you’re Joseph Stern. Nice to meet you, Joe.” He holds out a hand and Stern shakes it, mind still whirring.

“Well, I suppose that’s one disappearance Bigfoot can’t be blamed for.”

“Barclay? Naw, man’s so goddamn gentl I dunno how he got into this mess in the first place. Anyways, nice to meet another member of the Pine Guard.” 

“Pine Guard...oh, oh, of course, the patch on Ranger Newtons jacket, and on Aubrey Little’s vest, gah” he sits down, frustrated, “how could I have missed it?”

“Wait, you tellin me you ain’t a member? You don’t know Maddie?”

“Maddie? You mean Ms. Cobb?”

“Pfft” Thacker laughs, “yeah, you don’t know her well at all.”

“I’m sorry, is that a pre-requisite for getting fucking possessed by this!?” He points to the swirl around them.

“Now hold on, I didn’t mean no harm. Just sorta curious as to how the Quell got someone who weren’t tasked with stoppin it.”

Soon it will not matter. 

A flash of images dart through Stern’s mind; a gate, monsters like te one that attacked him pouring out, overrunning Kepler, a sea of violence and rage.

“Oh my lord. No.” 

“Yeah, those’ve been gettin more frequent. Quell’s been buildin up to breakin through to Earth for years.”

“We have to get out of here, we have to wake up or something, we have to warn the others.”

“I’m right there with you, Joe. Only trouble is, unless you know somethin I don’t, ain’t a way to break free of the Quell’s thrall. So without one hell of a plan, you’re stuck here, same as me.”

\------------------------------------------ 

“I gotta say Indrid, this is one hell of a plan, and I ain’t sure that’s a good thing or a bad one.” Mama finishes laying a magically knocked-out Thacker on a table in the safehouse. At the other side of the room, Barclay does the same for Stern. There was a time he feared the inquisitive, watchful expression that was the default on that handsome face. Now he’d give anything to see it again. 

“ It’s simple really; Aubrey and I will perform the needed spell. Either it gets our friends free, or she and I become possessed by the Quell as well.”

“Uh, just for, like, the sake of transparency, how likely is that second option?” Aubrey shakes out her arms and legs, as if limbering up for a race. 

“It happens in five percent of the futures.”

“In how many futures did I drop a Pizza Hut sign on someone?”

“Fifteen percent.”

“Let’s do this.” Aubrey takes her place between the tables, Indrid removing his glasses before joining her, settling his hands together as if meditating. 

Barclay watches as orange light zips along Indrids feathers and Aubrey’s fingers, the air in the room crackling. Beneath his human disguise, his fur stands on end. 

Duck stands off to his right, stopwatch in hand, under strict instructions to interrupt the spell in five minutes if no progress has been made. Barclay can just see the seconds flashing by from his post beside Stern.

At four minutes and twenty-eight seconds, Thacker jolts awake on the table, while Aubrey comes out of her trance with a gasp. Indrid makes no sound, shakes his head and puffs up his feathers in order to ruffle them down. 

“Maddie?”

“Still hate them damn nickname.” Mama crushes their long-lost friend in a hug, voice raw in a way Barclay’s heard only a handful of times.

Sterns motionless face keeps him from joining the celebration. 

“He is still there, Barclay. We could sense him, but not reach him enough to guide him out. The Quell does not give up her subjects willingly.”

“Thanks for trying, Indrid.”

“Oh no, no sad Bigfoot eyes mister, we’re getting Stern out.” Aubrey sits up, determined. 

“What if I helped? He seems like a nice enough fella.” Thacker looks to Mama, who rubs her temples. 

“Just havin him around has added to my gray hair. And I ain’t inclined to lose you rafter just gettin you back for the sake of someone who could make everythin we kept secret crumble in one go. But,” Mama turns to Barclay, “I also don’t feel like seein my best friend miserable for god knows how long. So we give it one go. Then we call it quits, at least for today.”

Thacker stands, moves stiffly to a position between Indrid and Aubrey.

“Here’s what I’m thinkin: We use my psychic abilities to amplify what you two are tryin to do. Might also be easier to navigate him out with someone who’s already broken free.”

“Worth a shot.” Indrid shuts his eyes.

“Five minutes?” Duck asks. Indrid shakes his head.

“Three.” Mama counters. Indrid nods. 

That same crackling, light and power gliding and jumping from person to person in the trio. But for all their effort, three minutes come and the only movement is Sterns eyes twitching behind his lids. 

Mama steadies Aubrey and Thacker, Duck catches Indrid when he lists to the left.

“Goodness, that was full power from all three of us and we still can’t get him all the way out.”

Barclay stares at his lap until combat boots enter his vision.

“We’ll get him out, okay? I promise. Just, not tonight, because I think I will literally die if I try again.”

“Thanks Aubrey.” He gives his best attempt at a smile. It is not very good, “I’ll catch up in a sec.”

The others disappear back into the warmth of the lodge. Barclay takes Sterns hand, rests it between both his own. The remnants of the amplification spell drift by him, useless as trash bags in the wind.

“Joseph, I don’t think you can hear me at all, but I’m gonna say this anyway. I wasn’t telling the truth when I said all Ned’s video ever brought me was trouble. Because that video brought me you. I wanted so badly to be scared of you, to make sure you stayed as far away from me as possible. I couldn’t do it. Because you’d smile at me, or do that thing you do where you’re polite even though most people take one look at your man in black thing and defer to you. You'd sit and do that half-assed crossword they publish in the paper here and ask me for help with the clues and I know you knew the answer to half of them, you just wanted to talk to me. You’re not subtle, agent, and there’s been so many times where I wanted to point that out to you, let you know I saw you looking, know you always chose a seat near me because you wanted to be with me. But I was so fucking scared, even beyond the FBI thing. Even in a perfect world where you weren’t hunting me, I assumed you’d be scared of my Sylph form. But you weren’t.”

The hand between his own stirs. He barely notices.

“Every time you geeked out over something or touched me these last couple of days I fell more in love with you, and I’m so fucking screwed because of that and I don’t care. Because Joseph, I would deal with every ounce of trouble that video has caused me, hell, that being Bigfoot has caused me, a hundred times over if it meant keeping you in my life.”

He sniffs, desperately rubs his nose and eye against his shoulder to clear the tears. But he catches sight of Sterns pack stashed in a corner, and it gets a thousand times worse. By the time he gets a hold of himself enough to speak, his voice is rough.

“Please come back to me.”

Silence, save for the low, hiccuping sobs he fights to keep in his chest. 

“Barclay?”

A hand rests atop his own.

He looks up, mouth agape, as Stern sits up. The agent blinks, clearing his vision for a moment, before his expression turns the softest Barclay’s ever seen it.

“Oh, oh my dear, don’t cry.” He cups Barclay’s cheek, brushing away the tears that turn from ones of sadness to relief at his touch.

“How, just, how-”

“After your friends kept trying to help me, I was straining to pick up anything else, any sign that could guide me home. Then I heard your voice.”

Barclay’s eyes widen, “Uh, how much did you hear?”

In lieu of an answer, Stern hops off the table and tumbles into his lap, kissing him so hard he swears he sees cartoon hearts spinning around his head as he wraps his arms around the agent’s waist. 

“I feel the same.” Stern whispers against his lips, drawing his tongue along the curve of the lower one, a signal to open them that Barclay gladly obeys. Fingers tangle in his hair, Stern demanding every inch of closeness, every possible point of contact. 

“Babe, we, nnnfuck, we should find the others, we gotta planAH, fuck I thought I liked lovebiting, there’s some major shit comingmmphhmmm.” he surrenders to the onslaught of kisses, purr rumbling from his chest and making Stern laugh. 

“You’re right, of course.” Stern murmurs as he pulls back, keeping their noses pressed together in what Dani always call as ‘bunny kiss, “But I think we can spare a few more minutes for just the two of us.”

“And the FBI stuff?” Barclay holds his breath.

Stern beams at him, “As far as I’m concerned, my new mission is to help Bigfoot save the world.”


	5. Bad Fiction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stern shares something from his past.

_"The pitiless stars gaze down upon our hero as he ponders his twisted ankle.' Oh no, whatever shall I do?'_

_He regards the dark woods, "I can't walk, and there is no help for miles"_

_"I shall surely perish. If only there were someone here to come to my aid"_

_A rustle in the bushes behind him, and his heart siezes with fear_

_A dark shape looms from the underbrush, and on instinct he tries to stand and flee, only to faint from the pain_

_He awakens sometime later upon a bed of soft moss. His ankle is bandaged, and beside him, stroking his cheek, sits a creature only he alone truly believed was real._

“Only you believed was real? Babe, that’s the most ridiculous part of this so far.”

Joseph glares at him over the edge of the battered notebook, “Look, you were the one who wanted me to read this aloud, big guy.”

“Sorry, sorry, please continue.” Barclay keeps changing out of his work clothes. 

_He gasps, pressing himself back against the wall_

_"Don't worry" the creature says, voice soft and kind, "I don't want to hurt you"_

_"Why did you rescue me?"_

_"I heard your cries for help. I couldn't leave you there to suffer. Don't be afraid, I will keep you safe and take care of you" The creature leans close, strokes his cheek once more, murmuring, "you're one of the most handsome humans I've ever seen."_

“Damn, sixteen year old you liked to get right to the point.”

“I was extraordinarily horny all the time, of course I did.”

“‘Was?’

Joseph chucks a pillow at him. 

_The creature pulls him close, strong arms embracing him tenderly, “I did not know humans could be so enticing.”_

_“I did not think I’d hold any appeal to a legend such as you.”_

_The creature growls, and he feels a sudden, hot need growing between his legs._

_“You are mine now, mine to care for.” The creature rolls them so our hero is on his back, “You are handsome and clever and I must have you for my mate.”_

_“Yes, but please, be gentle.”_

_“I could be no other way with you. I’ve known you such a short while, but already I treasure you.”_

_The kiss is unrelenting, their tongues battling for dominance, as he arches his back, body begging for_ okay no, I cannot continue this.” Joseph buries his face into the pages, giggling with embarrassment. 

“Aw, but I wanna see what you thought fucking Bigfoot would be like? How can I live up to your fantasies if I don’t know what they are?” He teases, tackling his boyfriend when Joseph tucks the notebook against his chest.

“First off, you exceed expectations every time we have sex.”

“Super sexy way of putting that, babe.”

“You knew I was like this when you agreed to date me. Second, I was very repressed and also didn’t realize just how much lube was needed for anal sex. Trying to recreate what I wrote would result in a trip to the E.R”

Barclay nuzzles his neck, grabbing the notebook only to toss it aside so he can better pin the agent to the bed. Joseph grins up at him, dark hair still messy from the shower. 

“In that case, what should we do instead?”

Joseph draws him into a kiss, slow and luxurious and painfully precise in the way it undoes him. The urgency of the first few times they tumbled into bed together has dissipated, the threat of double-apocalypse no longer looming behind their every action. 

“You know, I’ve spent much of the day training the new agents Hayes sent. I feel like letting someone else call the shots for a bit.” Joseph rests his hands behind his head.

Barclay licks his lips, savoring the sight of the man he loves laid out relaxed and happy before him. 

“Think I can manage that, agent.”

“That’s _special_ agent to you.”

“Yeah you’re right” Barclay kisses him with a unique form of attention and hunger, one reserved solely for the man beneath him, “you’re real fucking special. And I love you so, so fucking much.”

Stern sighs and whispers, “I love you too.”


End file.
